


Stuck Like Glue

by enigma731



Category: Hawkeye (Comics), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies), The Avengers (Marvel) - All Media Types
Genre: Angst and Humor, Clint's life doesn't always totally suck, Developing Relationship, F/M, Hawkguy, sometimes it just mostly sucks
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-10-15
Updated: 2013-10-15
Packaged: 2017-12-29 11:53:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,633
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1005110
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/enigma731/pseuds/enigma731
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clint needs Natasha’s help with…well, a sticky situation.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Stuck Like Glue

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Frea_O](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Frea_O/gifts).



> This is sort of a 616/MCU fusion, because shenanigans like these feel distinctly like Fraction!verse to me. No real comics knowledge required, though. I’m pretending this is set in a vague future timeline where Clint’s life is at least marginally less shitty (lol yeahright), because reasons. 
> 
> Thank you to [ SugarFey ](http://archiveofourown.org/users/SugarFey/) for beta and enabling.

Clint curses inwardly as he knocks on Natasha’s door with the toe of his boot. He doesn’t need to work hard to imagine the lecture he’s about to get; he can practically feel her annoyance from all the way out here. But then there’s a moment when nothing happens, when he starts to consider the possibility that she isn’t here, and fear at the trouble that could leave him in overwhelms any sense of trepidation.

Natasha says nothing when she finally opens the door, just raises an eyebrow and surveys his current predicament with a rather impressive degree of stoicism. He’s covered from head to toe in sticky web, rendering his hands entirely useless. His clothes are stuck to his body as well and it’s getting worse as the stuff dries, threatening to incapacitate his arms and legs entirely.

"Do I want to know?" she asks finally, then shakes her head. "Actually no. No, I do not."

"Trick arrow," says Clint, hoping he sounds appropriately chagrined. "New one. Was testing it and, well. Kinda backfired a little."

"You’re making a sticky web arrow?" asks Natasha, as if that’s the most pressing concern right now. "Why?"

"For sticky situations," says Clint, and she rolls her eyes.

"And you came here because—what, you want me to unstick you?"

"No," Clint says sourly, because he’s certain she knows exactly what he wants and is just asking questions to make him suffer. "I just wanted to give you a laugh. Come on, it gets worse the longer it dries." He attempts to lift an arm—which is now attached to his side—in demonstration. The stuff is starting to itch, too, because apparently no insult is complete without a side helping of injury.

"Why didn’t you just call Kate?" asks Natasha, though she does step aside to let him hobble into her apartment.

"Didn’t want a phone attached to my hands too. Besides, I’d never live this down."

Natasha blinks at him. “Wait. Bishop’s scarier than I am now?”

"No." Clint grimaces. "But you already know I’m an idiot. Trying to keep her at least a little bit naive."

Natasha laughs, shaking her head. “Too late, Barton. She already knows too.”

Clint sighs and promptly trips over his own feet as his legs start to stick together. “Fuck.”

She catches him with a hand on his shoulder, managing to pull away before she gets stuck. She rubs her thumb over her palm, making a face at the bit of stickiness she’s picked up from even that small contact.

“So,” she says, apparently deciding to take mercy on him finally. “What removes this stuff? Or do we have to figure that out too?”

“Soap and water should do it,” says Clint, and throws his hands up—as far as they’ll go—at her look of incredulity. “That’s what Stark said. Call him if you don’t believe me.”

“It’s not that I don’t believe you.” Natasha sighs, and suddenly he realizes how tired she looks, worn down in a way that has nothing to do with him interrupting her day. She starts to say something else—probably something about the practicality of arrows that dissolve in water—but then changes her mind. “Fine. Get in the shower.”

It takes him a moment, but Clint realizes that he remembers where the bathroom is, and suddenly he’s struck by the full weight of what he’s doing here, what exactly he’s asking of her. It’s been years since he’s kept a toothbrush here, months since he’s even stopped by on Avengers-related business. If he’s honest with himself, he’s let Natasha fall out of his life lately, too wrapped up in his own problems at first, and now too habitually cut off from the rest of the world. This seems like an inopportune moment to say anything, though, so instead he shoves the thought back down and stumbles obediently down the hallway.

Clint pauses when he gets to the side of the tub and realizes that he can’t touch the tap without risking his hands sticking to it, and it isn’t like his hands are a lot of use anyway. He feels a sudden stab of embarrassment as he looks up at Natasha; being caught in bad situations is one thing, but he’s never been good with abject helplessness. She says nothing, just reaches out and turns on the water.

Getting into the shower is a trial in itself, but he manages, acutely aware of Natasha’s eyes on him through the partly-open curtain, watching as he waits to see whether the water will come to his rescue as hoped. It doesn’t, though, or at least not entirely. Instead the sticky web turns into sticky glop, a little looser but still every bit as much of a mess as before. Panic starts to rise in the back of his throat for the first time.

“I swear to god, Barton,” she says, pulling her shirt over her head with a resigned look. “If I get stuck to you, I _will_ make you suffer.”

“Square deal,” says Clint, and forces himself to look away as she finishes undressing, focusing on the three cracked tiles in the shower and wondering what their story is.

But then Natasha’s right in front of him and it’s not like he’s never seen her naked before, but _fuck_ it’s been a long time and she’s just as stunning as ever. Suddenly he’s perversely grateful for the heavy pull of his jeans and the painful burning of the sticky web keeping this from becoming an even more awkward situation. She has no shame about this, he thinks; her body is one of her tools, and this is about efficiency. And possibly also a little bit about power, about control.

“I’m sorry,” he mutters, not meeting her eyes as she reaches out and carefully pulls the wrecked fabric of his clothes away from his skin.

Natasha pauses at that and studies his face for a long moment. He isn’t sure what she’s looking for, feels suddenly as though his words carry an apology for far more than the inconvenience he’s caused her today. She nods once, then grabs his hand and a washcloth and scrubs until his fingers are free again at last. Clint thinks about telling her to get out then, that he can do the rest on his own.

But then she surprises him by reaching out again, resting her palm against his cheek. “I thought we might have lost you for a while there.”

“I didn’t go anywhere,” he says obtusely, knowing that’s not what she means but entirely unprepared to have the real conversation.

She just smiles sadly and when she lets her hand fall away, the loss of contact stings. Natasha doesn’t say anything else, just stands there with him while he washes away the rest of the web, the silence growing surprisingly comfortable as the warm spray beats down. It isn’t like they’ve solved everything—or anything, really—he knows, but somehow things seem brighter than they have in a while.

“Maybe I _should_ call Kate,” he says, when they finally get out and she hands him a towel. Until now, he’s been ignoring the fact that his only clothes are now in a soaked, mildly tacky heap on the floor of the shower. “Unless I’m gonna wear this home.”

“You left a few things here, actually,” says Natasha wrapping her own towel around herself, and Clint can’t help the look of surprise he’s pretty damn sure is now broadcast across his face.

“And you didn’t burn them?”

Natasha has the good grace not to respond, instead moving to the closet, the line of her body as she reaches for a bag on the top shelf making his mouth go dry.

“We could, you know, _stay_ naked,” says Clint, because he really doesn’t value his life.

She turns and looks at him sharply, shades of something in her eyes that he can’t quite read. “Is that what you want? Is that why you came here?”

“Yes!” Clint blurts, then bites back his own enthusiasm. “No. I mean—Yes, it’s what I want. No, it’s not why I came here. I came here because I knew you’d help me.” That part has never changed, he thinks, no matter how many times he’s blown it all to hell. “Are you going to kill me now?”

She laughs and tosses him a pair of sweats and a t-shirt that he vaguely recognizes as things he once owned. “Put your clothes on, Clint. But come back when you’re not covered in an experiment. Maybe you’ll get lucky.”

“I miss you,” Clint says, because it wasn’t an outright refusal, because he doesn’t get moments like this very often, has to grab it and hold on with everything he’s got.

Natasha crosses the room to stand in front of him, close enough that he can see the water still beaded on her clavicle, above the line of her towel. “What are you going to do about it, then?”

He rests his hands on her hips and swallows hard, tries to scrape up a few marginally functional brain cells and convince them to work as a team. “We used to have a thing in my building. A bunch of us would get together at the end of the week, have food and drinks on the roof. Been thinking we should revive the tradition.”

Natasha raises an eyebrow. “And is that supposed to be an invitation?”

“Yes,” says Clint, silently cursing his clumsiness. “That was the idea.”

She leans forward, brushing her lips along the line of his jaw to whisper in his ear. “Okay. Then I’ll see you there.”

It’s half promise, half threat, and everything he’s always loved about her. Clint grins.


End file.
